


i die every night with you

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Porn with Feelings, i really hate napoli :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 09:47:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20691494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: When they get back to the hotel, Virgil surpasses his own room and goes straight to Jordan’s. James, in the room next door, gives them a knowing look, but Jordan ignores him and puts his hand on the back of Virgil’s neck, pushing him inside – just so they don’t get caught up in anyone else thinking they can comment on it.Virgil’s bag is still discarded in the corner and his toothbrush in the glass by the sink from the night before, when he’d snuck over after everyone else was asleep. They didn’t do anything except talk, quiet and hushed about the game, wrapped up in each other until they fell asleep. Virgil had to creep out dead early so they wouldn’t be caught, but it was worth it.





	i die every night with you

**Author's Note:**

> i'm angry, virgil's angry, hendo's angry, we're all angry. what a bullshit game that was.
> 
> anyway, to cheer myself up, i wrote this. soft and (hopefully) sexy – i hope you all enjoy!
> 
> feedback always loved and appreciated, thank you for reading! xx

He can tell Virgil is angry. It's a quiet kind of rage, the sort that simmers just under your skin, threatening to bubble over and explode at any given moment. He's silent as he undresses methodically, folding his dirt smudged kit with careful hands and white knuckles, tying his hair back with short, sharp tugs.

Jordan can tell because he is, too. Not as much, probably - the final whistle shattered most of the adrenaline and now he's just exhausted, ready to get back to England and the most important thing this season: the premier league.

Still, he hates seeing Virgil like this. He's known him for almost two years now but he's still not sure how he's supposed to react, how to approach him, how to touch. He doesn't know if he's even allowed to touch, really, but that doesn't stop him trying. He just has to handle it carefully, gentle with his approach, to not scare Virgil off.

He waits until the dressing room is almost empty; a few players heading off to press and the rest not wanting to linger in the foul atmosphere that Virgil is creating. Klopp had taken one look at both of their thunderous faces and excused them from press duty, knowing that it was probably the furthest thing from a good idea to send them out to the surface.

Gini is the last one to leave, passing Jordan with a pat on the chest, a glance over his shoulder and a whisper of, _look after him, please_. It almost makes him laugh, because Virgil is fully capable of looking after himself - it's just that now, he doesn't have to.

"You okay?" Jordan asks quietly, easing himself on the bench next to Virgil. He places a careful hand on his back and watches him tie his laces. Virgil doesn't look up, doesn't react at all, even though his muscles tense up. Jordan half expects him to shrug the touch away, but he doesn't. "Stupid question, I know."

"I'm fine," Virgil says eventually. There's a long silence, heavy and expectant, and Jordan knows that it's because he wants to say something else, so he keeps his mouth shut. Because Virgil is not fine. Because that's the most unconvincing thing that's ever come out of his mouth, mechanical and emotionless, and he's on the verge of cracking. It doesn't take long, and then he's dropping his head, hands resting in his lap like a schoolboy that's being chastised. "It's my fault."

“What is?” He asks distantly, distracted by the way a muscle in Virgil’s jaw is flickering angrily. And then he comes back to himself, thinking, _oh, of course_, and slides his hand down the length of Virgil’s spine, hoping the movement is as comforting as he wants it to be. “Don’t be stupid, Virg. No it’s not.” 

“Isn’t it?” Virgil spits back. He doesn’t lift his head, instead turning it a fraction to the left to look at Jordan. His eyes are rimmed red, rage settling into every part of his body, and his mouth is a tight line. “Maybe if we kept it at one nil, we could have at least scraped a draw out of it, but then I gave away that second goal. _Me_, I did it, nobody else. And then it was – gone. We were fucked.” 

“It could have happened to anyone, you know,” Jordan says. He chooses his words carefully, because Virgil doesn’t open up like this to anyone else, and he’s afraid that if he says the wrong thing, he’ll somehow retreat even further. He needs to try and make this better. “Would you say that if it was me making a tiny little mistake? Would you say it was my fault?”

“Course I wouldn’t,” Virgil says, scoffing like it’s obvious. It’s not, though. Virgil is harder on himself than he is on anyone else – which is why he’s the best defender in the world right now – but it’s still not nice to see. Jordan doesn’t want to see any of his teammates blaming themselves, especially not Virgil.

“Then why are you saying it was yours?” He asks softly, placing two of his fingers under Virgil’s chin to lift his head. They make eye contact for the first time, and Jordan’s breath catches in his throat. He’ll never get tired of how beautiful Virgil is, even when he’s desperately sad and beyond exhausted. “Nobody blames you, Virgil. _Nobody_.” 

“The fans will,” Virgil says, and it shakes Jordan to notice that his eyes are wet. He blinks the tears away quickly, but Jordan saw it and he knows now, how much he’s tearing himself up inside, why exactly he doesn’t talk to anyone after a loss. “The fans will blame me. They’ll- they’ll know it’s my fault.” 

“No, they won’t,” Jordan says firmly. He moves his hand to cup Virgil’s cheek, holding his gaze and leaning closer. He has no escape now, nowhere to look but Jordan, and he wants to bury himself in Virgil’s mind and take away every negative thought. He can’t promise that, but he at least wants to attempt it. “They know how good you are. They know how important you are. One silly mistake won’t change the fact they love you – the fact that we _all_ love you.”

He says all but he really means himself, because saying the words plainly aren’t going to do anything right now. It might make himself feel a little bit better, but it’s not what Virgil needs to hear at this moment in time. Maybe later, but not now.

“Thank you,” Virgil says, tilting their foreheads together. Jordan can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face, and Virgil rolls his eyes fondly, lips quirked up at the corners. “For _trying_,” he says instead, because the clarification is important.

Jordan tries to fight back a grin, and he leans forward, kissing Virgil softly on the lips. It’s not a lot of anything, at first: a comfort, mostly, but then Virgil hesitantly parts his mouth, tongue brushing just barely against Jordan’s. He grows more sure of himself, one arm snaking around Jordan’s waist and the other hand resting on his knee for balance, touch light like he’s still got one foot out the door, but that’s alright. At least Jordan has him – for now.

“Everyone’ll be waiting for us,” Jordan murmurs when he pulls away. His eyes are still closed and his mouth brushes Virgil’s when he speaks, because he can’t quite bring himself to break the kiss entirely. It’s nice, warm and safe, and he wants Virgil to feel it too. “Can’t imagine the jokes on the bus if we make them wait too long.” 

“I don’t care,” Virgil says confidently, but the way he tangles his fingers with Jordan’s as they both stand proves that he’s feeling anything but. They don’t do this clingy thing often – not in front of other people, at least – and it makes Jordan’s chest hurt when he realises how much Virgil needs someone to lean on right now. “At least it’ll stop them talking about the mistake I made.” 

“Shut up, idiot,” Jordan says, but it’s not unkind. He reaches up on his tiptoes to press a final kiss to Virgil’s cheek and then starts dragging him towards the door, because they’ve been putting it off for far too long now. The mixed zone should be empty by now, nobody to ambush them as they walk past, and Jordan is grateful. His priority is getting Virgil to the bus in one piece, not answering some Italian arsehole’s questions about every little mistake they made. “You know I’ve always got your back, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” Virgil sighs as they step into the private car park where the bus is waiting. It’s still humid, the air hot and sticky, and Jordan will be grateful to get on the nice air-conditioned coach. He’s well and truly over tonight, wants to put it behind him and start again tomorrow. “Thank you. I really appreciate it – I know I don’t tell you enough.”

Jordan smiles but he doesn’t say anything, because they’re at the open door of the bus now. Whatever happens tonight, whatever he says, he wants to keep it private. Between the two of them, so Virgil can remember his words, treasure them and bring it out if (when) this happens again. He might be going a bit soft in his old age, but it’s only because he cares.

He places a hand on the small of Virgil’s back and guides him up the aisle, staunchly looking ahead. Their teammates don’t say anything, barely even glancing at them, except for Joel who taps Virgil’s hip reassuringly on the way past and Gini, who smiles at Jordan gratefully. 

He’s glad it’s not a whole song and dance, to be honest, and he quietly lets Virgil slip into the window seat, far enough at the back that they won’t be bothered on the short journey back to the hotel. There’s two rows of empty seats in front of them and Virgil seems relieved by it, finally pulling his hood down now that he feels like he doesn’t have to hide.

“I just – I just hate feeling like it’s my fault,” Virgil mumbles, leaning into Jordan’s touch when the older man puts an arm around his shoulders. He slouches down in his seat, far enough that he can rest his head on Jordan’s chest, vulnerable in a way that he never really lets himself be. “I hate thinking that I’m the reason we lost.” 

“You’re not,” Jordan whispers, pressing a kiss to the crown of Virgil’s head. He takes his headphones from his pocket and untangles them with one hand, plugging them into his phone and offering Virgil one. When he takes it, he places the other one in his own ear and finds the playlist he listens to when he can’t sleep – or when he misses Virgil something rotten, when international duty is separating them. 

It’s gentle, soothing songs with calm voices and a nice beat, and he closes his eyes, head tilted back against the seat. He tries not to think about the game, instead focusing on the man that’s leaning on him right now, both physically and mentally.

Virgil has been there for him more than enough in the past. The least he can do is return the favour. 

.

When they get back to the hotel, Virgil surpasses his own room and goes straight to Jordan’s. James, in the room next door, gives them a knowing look, but Jordan ignores him and puts his hand on the back of Virgil’s neck, pushing him inside – just so they don’t get caught up in anyone else thinking they can comment on it.

Virgil’s bag is still discarded in the corner and his toothbrush in the glass by the sink from the night before, when he’d snuck over after everyone else was asleep. They didn’t do anything except talk, quiet and hushed about the game, wrapped up in each other until they fell asleep. Virgil had to creep out dead early so they wouldn’t be caught, but it was worth it.

Now though, Virgil is completely different to the man that secretly made his way into Jordan’s room last night. That man was confident, shoulders squared and defiant, chin tilting up with pride. This one is hunched over, exhaustion written in all the fine lines on his face, second guessing every move he makes.

It makes Jordan’s heart squeeze painfully in his chest.

“I love you,” he says, locking the door behind him and taking two steps closer to Virgil. There’s barely an inch between them now, chest brushing as he looks up at the younger man with a fierce expression on his face. He means every word of it, and he wants Virgil to know it, too. “I love you so much. I’d still love you even if you scored eight own goals in one game.” 

Virgil laughs, but it’s wet and a little bit choked off. It still counts, Jordan thinks, as Virgil puts his hands around his waist to pull him ever so slightly closer. “I don’t think I’m that bad – yet,” he says, rolling his eyes, but it seems like a bit of a struggle to try and be so jokey about it.

“Well, whether you’re making one stupid mistake or scoring eight own goals – the point still stands,” he says firmly. Virgil smiles a little bit, lazy and not quite real, but it’s enough for Jordan. He hooks his arms around the younger man’s neck, unable to stop his gaze from flickering down to Virgil’s mouth. “I still love you, either way.”

Virgil takes the hint and presses their lips together. This kiss is more heated than the one they shared in the dressing room; the door is locked, they don’t have to worry about anyone catching them, and they can finally be themselves here. Here, in this room, they can just be Virgil-and-Jordan-Jordan-and-Virgil, with nobody to ruin the moment.

His teeth nip at Jordan’s bottom lip, harder than normal but not enough to actually be painful, and his fingers twist into the loose material of Jordan’s t-shirt, pulling him until their bodies are flush against each other. It’s a nice distraction – all Jordan can really think about is the heat of Virgil’s mouth, and he hopes that it’s the same for Virgil, too. He doesn’t want him thinking about anything else, not when his skin should be buzzing with anticipation of what’s about to happen.

It gives him an idea. He’s not sure if it’s a good one, if Virgil will be up for it after what’s happened and how he’s felt for the past hour, but it’s got to be worth a try at the very least. Virgil deserves something nice.

He retracts one of his arms from around Virgil’s neck and covers the younger man’s hand on his waist, tangling their fingers together. He breaks the kiss (although he really, really doesn’t want to), and rests his forehead against the high point of Virgil’s cheekbone, staring down at their joined hands as he breathes out harshly.

“This is how you make me feel,” he whispers, dragging their hands from his waist to his hip, and then further, until Virgil’s palm is cupping the front of his joggers. Virgil draws in a short, sharp breath but stays quiet, and Jordan can’t take his eyes off of their hands. The contrast of their skin, Jordan’s scarred knuckles next to Virgil’s smooth ones, the length of his fingers around Jordan’s half hard dick. It’s intimate and obscene in its own beautiful way. “I want you to know how you make me feel – how good you make me feel.” 

Virgil makes a quiet keening noise at the back of his throat and Jordan kisses it away before it can really leave his mouth. He’s only half paying attention really, lips sliding against the corner of Virgil’s mouth as he rocks into his hand, but it’s enough.

He manages to drag himself away and keeps his hips still, looking up at Virgil through his eyelashes. It’s a coy look, one that he hopes makes him look innocent, and it works, because Virgil’s eyes are wide and bright, pupils expanding until they’re almost entirely black. He’s breathing in short, shallow breaths as he presses in closer, heel of his palm dragging down the length of Jordan’s dick as the tips of his fingers tuck underneath his balls. 

“You’re sure?” He asks, voice already low and hoarse. His face is fixed into something serious but careful, and it makes something crack open in Jordan’s chest – but in the loveliest way. He’s always checking, making sure that Jordan is okay and wants this and that he feels good. It makes him feel so, so safe.

“I’m always sure,” Jordan says, letting a small smile take over his face. It’s so difficult to keep still, to stop himself from rutting against Virgil’s hand and kissing him desperately, and eventually, he can’t take it anymore, pushing up against him and closing the gap between them fiercely. “I always want you, Virgil. Always.” 

Virgil groans, a rumble deep in his chest that Jordan feels through his own, and wrestles the older man’s t-shirt over his head before discarding his own hoodie and t-shirt in one quick movement. His hands go back to Jordan’s waist, and he mourns the loss of the pressure on his dick for a second, but then it’s bare skin on bare skin and Virgil’s thumbs pressing into the sharp points of his hip bones so hard it’ll probably bruise. 

He doesn’t mind; quite the opposite, actually, because he wants to look at the marks in the morning, to remember that Virgil put them there and that he’s his and no one else's. He wants Virgil to gently run the tips of his fingers over them, even through his clothes, just to remind him of what happened. He wants all of it, the pain and the pleasure.

He lets Virgil manhandle him, gently pushing him back until he’s spread out on the big double bed and the younger man is looming above him, a dangerous smile on his face as he leans in for another kiss. It’s wet and hot, Virgil taking and taking and taking, and Jordan’s hands curve around the muscle of his shoulders, holding on for dear life.

It’s all he can do, really. Virgil offers no reprieve, no break from the sensations, especially when he drives his hips down hard, and Jordan gasps, back arching up as he tries to get more. He’s turned on out of his mind, barely remembering _why_ he started this, but that doesn’t matter anymore, not when Virgil is biting down the pale skin of his throat, bound to leave marks from the force of it. 

The tips of Virgil’s fingers hook into the waistband of Jordan’s joggers and he pauses, glancing up once to check everything’s okay, and then dips his head back down again, teeth closing around one of his nipples. He rolls the bud between his teeth gently as he slides Jordan’s trousers and boxers down his thighs, knuckles sparking delightful flashes of pleasure where they brush against his skin. 

It’s too much but still not enough. Virgil’s tongue is sliding wetly across his other nipple now, but he wants more, so he nudges his knee against Virgil’s thigh until he gets the hint, pulling away with a cold breath over his wet skin. He takes the rest of his clothes off without much fuss, and they’re both naked now, with absolutely nowhere and nothing to hide – not that either of them would want to.

“You’re gorgeous,” Virgil whispers, stretching up to kiss Jordan again. His hand closes around his thigh as he rocks his hips against Jordan’s, small, teasing movements that have the older man fisting his fingers in the bedsheets, head thrown back with pleasure. “So, so gorgeous. I’m so lucky to get to call you mine.” 

That word alone makes Jordan moan quietly, a whine dragging up from low in his throat, and Virgil smiles against his skin, making his way back down Jordan’s body with a trail of kisses. He settles comfortably in the splay of Jordan’s legs like he’s done a thousand times before, mouthing lazily against his stomach and lightly brushing his fingers through the dusky hairs on his thigh. 

“You make me feel good too, you know,” Virgil murmurs, dipping lower but not quite where Jordan wants him. His nose nudges against the crease of Jordan’s hip as he bites down harshly on the soft, sensitive skin of his inner thigh, and the older man can’t stop himself from crying out. He shoves his fist into his mouth just to stop himself from swearing, well aware of the fact that two of their teammates are sleeping either side of the walls. “All the time. Drives me fucking crazy, Jord, I swear. Feel like I can’t take my eyes off you sometimes.” 

And with that, he takes the tip of Jordan’s dick into his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he glances up at Jordan from beneath his eyelashes. It’s fucking obscene – his eyes are wide and innocent, lips already red and kiss swollen, and now they’re stretched prettily around Jordan’s cock, cheekbones sharp and prominent.

Jordan loves him so, so much; so much it hurts, burning at his lungs until he can’t breathe properly.

Virgil bobs his head up and down, teeth grazing _just right_ on the thick vein at the underside of Jordan’s dick, and he brings one of his hands up to cup Jordan’s balls. It’s too much, far too much, and Jordan can feel that familiar tightening in his lower stomach, and he paws at Virgil’s shoulder blindly.

“Fuck, fuck,” he gasps, throwing an arm over his eyes as he tries to calm down. His muscles are trembling slightly, and Virgil laughs as he slides up Jordan’s body, low and sexy and teasing, before pressing dry kisses to the length of his jaw. “You’re gonna be the death of me one day.”

He still curls his arm around Virgil’s shoulder to bring him closer though, kissing him lazily just to try and bring himself back from the edge. He doesn’t want this to be over too soon, trying to drag it out just because it’s far better than the alternative. Virgil’s dick slides against the crease of his hip, hot and heavy as he lets out harsh little gasps that Jordan swallows immediately, and _yeah_ – much, much better. 

“Love you,” Virgil murmurs. He brings his hand up to cup Jordan’s cheek as he presses dry, chaste kisses to the other one, nose nudging against his temple softly. “I know why you’re doing this, but I still love you.” 

Jordan huffs out an embarrassed laugh, rolling his eyes to try and cover it. He doesn’t know why he’s embarrassed – it’s not a secret and he made it pretty obvious at the beginning, but he doesn’t want Virgil to think it’s out of pity or anything. Quite the opposite, really, and he tries to show that by turning his head to the side and catching Virgil’s mouth with his own.

“Just want you to know how much I love you,” he whispers. Virgil pulls back to stare at him with half lidded eyes, so he definitely knows, but Jordan still isn’t quite sure if he actually knows the full extent of it. He doesn’t know if Virgil knows that Jordan’s chest tightens every time he so much as looks at him, or the way his fingers ache when they’re more than three feet away from each other, or the way he’s not had a decent night’s sleep without him ever since they got together. He doesn’t know if Virgil knows all of that, but he wants him to. God, he wants him to. “Want to show you, Virgil. I could never– I’m not good with words, not really. But I can show you. I’d show you every single second of every day, if I could.” 

Virgil smiles, wide and dazzling but a little stunned, and he peppers short pecks onto Jordan’s lips. They don’t really talk about stuff like this often, preferring to take every day as it comes and then go from there, but seeing Virgil so down and harsh on himself earlier made Jordan realise a lot of things.

The pecks turn into proper kisses, long and deep: Virgil’s tongue in Jordan’s mouth, curling behind his teeth and leaving no room in his mind for anything else. His fingers slide into Jordan’s hair, tangling in the damp waves and pulling slightly, sharp pain that just makes him want _more_. Virgil knows, though, because he always seems to know. He knows Jordan better than he knows himself, at this point.

Virgil reaches down the side of the bed to where Jordan had dropped the wash bag containing the lube the day before. The younger man had watched him with a smirk on his face, said _think you're gonna pull, do you_ lowly, and laughed when Jordan flushed bright red from the neck up, pulling him in by the front of his hoodie for a sloppy kiss.

He's not embarrassed about it now, though. He doesn't have the capacity to feel anything but an eager kind of pleasure when he feels Virgil's wet fingers trailing up the crease of his arse, cold when they circle his hole a few times. He hisses, flinching away from the sensation, but Virgil keeps him in place with the hand in his hair, leaning down to kiss him gently.

The first finger isn't too bad. It's nice, finally feeling something similar to fullness after wanting it for so long, but Virgil doesn't wait before he pushes a second in. It burns a little bit, because Virgil's fingers are thick and long, stretching him, and he scissors them carefully, thoughtful in the methodical way he stretches Jordan. There's a line between his eyebrows as he moves his fingers, always making sure he's not doing anything wrong, anything that would hurt Jordan, and the older man somehow finds it within himself to lift his hand to Virgil's face and smooth the line away with his thumb.

"You good?" Virgil asks quietly, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Jordan's mouth. The burn is fading away into something pleasant now, two fingers just not enough anymore, and he nods, offering Virgil a reassuring smile.

It's enough encouragement for Virgil to continue, because he removes his hand from Jordan's hair, smoothing it down quickly before hooking his fingers under Jordan's thigh and lifting it so that his knee is riding high against his ribs. The angle is better now and his fingers slide in even deeper, and he leans down to kiss him, calming and even, barely moving his hand now.

But then he hooks the tips of his fingers, rubbing that bundle of nerves relentlessly, and Jordan breaks away from the kiss with a gasp. He's moaning, letting out a string of twisted noises that are supposed to be words, but it's just the syllables of Virgil's name, broken and tripping over themselves. Virgil grins against his mouth, teeth bared and dangerous, as he keeps rubbing against Jordan's prostate, reducing him to a whimpering mess.

His entire body is on fire, sparks of pleasure turning his spine to liquid every time Virgil moves his fingers, and he tries to breathe through it, deep, ragged gasps against Virgil's cheek. Virgil is watching him, eyes wide and pupils dilated, and he takes in every single movement on Jordan’s face like he can’t bear to miss it.

“So beautiful,” Virgil murmurs, dragging his nose up the side of Jordan’s face to kiss his temple. He pulls his fingers out and Jordan shivers from the loss, clenching around nothing, but he can hear the obscene sound of Virgil slicking up his dick and he knows it’s not going to be long now. He doesn’t have to wait anymore, and he slides his hands up the length of Virgil’s back, nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders.

The head of his dick is pressing against Jordan’s hole teasingly, not quite breaching but enough to make him feel desperate, and he gasps, letting out a broken litany of _please, please_. Virgil just smiles, and Jordan can feel the stretch of his lips against his skin, before he pulls back entirely, looking down with a serious look on his face.

“That wasn’t a penalty, was it?” He asks, and Jordan is so startled that he has to laugh. His entire body is burning, back arching in an attempt to get what he wants, and Virgil really thinks _now_ is the right time to talk about the fucking game. 

“You really going to ask me that now?” Jordan asks, raising his eyebrows, but Virgil doesn’t back down. He just stares down, face unchanging, expectant, and Jordan sighs, bringing his left hand up to cup around the back of Virgil’s head and dragging him down for a kiss. “No. No, it wasn’t.” 

“Good,” Virgil mumbles against Jordan’s lips, and then he’s pushing in, not giving him a chance to get used to the stretch. He bottoms out and settles comfortably, unmoving and pressing soft kisses against Jordan’s lips, half distracting him from the initial sting of pain. 

He’s still angry, Jordan knows that – from the question he just asked but also because if Jordan puts a hand on his skin, palm flat and still, he can practically feel the buzzing of it in his veins. It’s vibrating, almost, making his fingers shake from the force, but you couldn’t really tell. Not if you only focused on the way he’s touching Jordan, delicate and calculated. There’s no sign of it at all.

“Alright?” He asks softly, barely the ghost of a breath, but Jordan is starting to feel comfortably full now, shifting a bit as the lack of sensation gets unbearable. He nods desperately, seconds away from begging, but then Virgil grins, sharp and beautiful, pulling his hips almost entirely back before slamming back in.

The angle isn’t quite right yet but it’s still _so much_, and a whine pulls up Jordan’s throat, fingers scrabbling at Virgil’s back to try and find a bit of purchase. The younger man’s fingers curl around the back of his thigh, so careful and gentle, and the realisation crashes deep into Jordan’s chest, making tears prick at his eyes and throat feel tight with emotion.

Because Virgil is angry, raging at the entire world and full of hatred for everything, and he could so easily take that out on Jordan. He half expected it, really – sharp bites and rough pulling, a way to vent a bit of that frustration – and he’d probably do it if it was the other way around, but not Virgil. No, Virgil loves him enough that he’s still soft with his hands and mouth and words, treating him with the respect he always does. Virgil loves him enough to somehow keep his mind, and that makes him an infinitely better man than Jordan.

“I love you,” he says, desperate for Virgil to know. He drags him down for a kiss, sloppy and off-centre, and hooks his other leg around Virgil’s back, heel of his foot pressing against the hard muscle just to try and get him to move. “I love you so much, _fuck_.”

Virgil shushes him gently, pressing a soothing kiss to his cheek and holding his thigh tight against his side. He starts moving again, rocking his hips in small, shallow movements, but the angle is different this time. The head of his dick nudges against Jordan's prostate with every thrust, but just barely. Just enough that the need for more consumes him, fingernails scratching at Virgil’s shoulders so hard he must be close to drawing blood, begging him with broken sobs.

“Let me take care of you,” Virgil whispers, peppering kisses up the side of Jordan’s face. He starts working his hips a little bit harder, a little bit deeper, and smooths his hand over Jordan’s hair comfortingly. Jordan doesn’t know how he’s keeping it together, how he’s not going wild from the feeling, because he himself feels like he’s been broken down to his rawest form and then put back together again. “I want to thank you, for earlier. I want to make you feel good, so just let me take care of you.”

Jordan can do nothing but nod, and he feels a stray tear slip down his face that Virgil kisses away. The younger man’s grip on his thigh gets a little bit tighter, fingers biting into the soft skin, and then he starts pushing in fast and unrelenting, setting a quick pace that Jordan can barely keep up with. He tries to push back, meet Virgil's hips with his own, but his mind is no longer in sync with his body and it's not quite right anymore.

Virgil doesn't mind when he gives up, instead leaning down to kiss him, slow and deep, and he curls his arm around the length of his shoulders just to keep him close. Any inch of space would be unbearable right now, he decides as he tucks his face into the curve of Virgil's neck. He's so hard it hurts, dick smearing wet where it's resting hot and heavy against his stomach, but the friction from Virgil's abs feels like heaven against his skin.

He's trying so hard not to come. There's stars behind his eyelids and the tips of his fingers are tingling, but he forces it back, because this isn't about him, is it? It's about Virgil, letting him do what he wants, making him feel good. He wants to make sure Virgil is the centre of attention, feeling warm and safe and loved.

It doesn't take long. Virgil starts losing the intense pace, hips snapping erratically, and he uses the grip he has on Jordan's hair to pull his head back, kissing him messily. There's no finesse to it whatsoever; his lips keep sliding to the left and he's basically just breathing into his mouth at this point, but the intimacy of it makes Jordan's chest feel full, and he almost wants to cry.

Virgil's hips freeze suddenly and he hides his face in Jordan's neck, and that's all it takes before he's coming, shaking from the force of it and biting down harshly on a spot of skin just below Jordan's ear. It hurts, but there's so much going on right now: the pain, the feeling of Virgil spilling inside him, the aching of his own dick, and he somehow finds the coordination to snake a hand between their bodies and curl a hand around himself. 

"No," Virgil somehow gasps, his mind just about coming back to him. He knocks Jordan's hand out of the way and replaces the grip with his own, and the feeling of his long, callused fingers is so much better. He tugs once, twice, and twists his wrist, and then Jordan is coming, nails scratching down Virgil's back so hard he draws blood. He lets out a broken sob, quietly repeating _love you love you love you_ because he can't stop himself. Just in case Virgil didn't know.

It takes a few minutes before Jordan's vision starts to focus again. Virgil is still nestled between his thighs, still inside him and still shaking, and his face is still hidden against Jordan's skin. He's breathing wetly as he comes down from the high, and Jordan traces gentle patterns down the length of his spine.

"I love you," he says suddenly, voice broken and raw. He lifts his head to press a chaste kiss to the underside of Jordan's jaw, nuzzling his nose against the soft bristles of his beard. All of his muscles are trembling and Jordan loves it, loves knowing that he can reduce this confident, beautiful man to _this_. "I love you so much, Jord. So good to me."

Jordan doesn't say anything. He's too scared that if he opens his mouth, he won't be able to stop talking, but it doesn't really matter because Virgil knows. He knows all of it, everything Jordan feels, and that's enough. Instead, he hooks his finger around the band that's keeping Virgil's hair tied back and works it loose, burying his hand in the curls and scratching his head gently. "You'll give yourself a headache," he says, shamefully aware of how choked off his voice is.

They should really clean up; Virgil's softening dick is becoming uncomfortable inside him, there's an aching bruise blossoming red and purple from where Virgil sunk his teeth in, and the come is drying on his stomach, but he doesn't want to move - especially not when Virgil curls an arm around his waist, tight and possessive. He wraps his free arm around the younger man's back and hugs him just as close, enjoying the intensity of the moment.

"Feel a bit better now," Virgil murmurs against his skin, smiling slightly, and Jordan feels his body relax with relief. He only ever wants Virgil to be happy, hates to see him sad. He wants to see a smile on his face every second of every day, especially when they've suffered a loss. Because even though they lose together as a team, it's more than that between the two of them - Jordan loves Virgil, and Virgil loves him, and that connection is undeniable. Tangible.

"Tomorrow," Jordan starts, and then pauses to clear his throat. He twists his finger around one of Virgil's curls and leans down to kiss his head, trying to hide his emotion. "Tomorrow, we go home. Back to Liverpool, and we put all of this behind us. We start fresh, look forward to Sunday, and we're going to smash the league, alright?"

It's not his captains voice but it's close enough. There's more in it than he would normally give to anyone else, more passion, something fiercer, because he wants Virgil to believe it. He wants Virgil to believe in _himself_, if anything, and if that doesn't work, then he wants him to know that Jordan believes in him enough for the both of them.

It works, because Virgil nods, and his eyelashes are wet when they brush against Jordan's skin. "Thank you," he whispers, stretching to kiss the left side of his chest, just over his heart. His fingers tighten around Jordan's waist and his breathing starts to even out into a calming pattern, finally at peace after such an awful evening, and Jordan feels it, too, the adrenaline leaving his body and making exhaustion settle in his bones.

And if they fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other and warm, then nobody else needs to know. He sleeps better than he ever has in his life, and wakes up the next morning to Virgil's bright, easy smile, and a soft feeling in his chest.

Jordan loves Virgil, loves the entire spirit of him, really - and it's enough that Virgil knows that too. He doesn't need anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [georginiwijnaldum](https://georginiwijnaldum.tumblr.com/) xo


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